Worth More Than A Lamb Gyro
by OrbitZero
Summary: 'It was hard to believe this guy had many friends with his angry stare and awkward sense of humor. "Sure, whatever." That was probably the exact attitude that got him ejected into open space but he wasn't sure how to shake it off. Maybe it was part of who he was.' A nameless amnesiac has a brief run-in with a boy named Odin.


I don't recall which colony Trowa made it to after drifting in space. I'm going with one in the L2 cluster as this lagrange point is closest the moon and if I remember right Vayeate and Mercurius were dispatched from the Lunar Base. Today's astronauts have oxygen that lasts for nearly eight hours with the addition of 30 minutes worth for emergency, so I rounded up to ten plus the emergency amount, because 'it's the future' so of course they improve these things :)) This also is probably not a feasible story based on where characters were at the time, but if you don't mind I don't either. And finally, this is more of a friendship thing but if it pleases you to read it as a pairing, that's fine too.

* * *

He stared at the bottle even though he didn't really care about what was on the label. It was something to do, something to occupy his mind with. Four percent alcohol by volume. Bragging about Bavarian purity standards set in the 1800s of the era before this one, as if that was supposed to instill confidence in him as to the quality of the beer. Not everything old was good, but some things were old because they were good.

Whatever.

The taste didn't seem terribly unfamiliar to him. Or rather, it was about what he was expecting when he drank it. He didn't even know if he was eighteen, the legal age on this colony. It was in the L2 cluster, one created by people from the U.S. They were apparently considered a little more strict because some colonies didn't have a legal drinking age at all. But the bartender looked at him when he walked in, obviously in ragged hand-me-downs paired with standard issue OZ flight suit boots and asked him what his deal was. He honestly said he didn't know and found the English the man spoke to be almost too quick to follow. His own English was good enough, but he felt like he wasn't used to hearing an American accent. He explained a little further that he was an OZ pilot, that he'd nearly died after drifting in space for eleven hours and fifteen minutes. And now he had no idea who he was, where he came from, where he was supposed to be, and why he was here. That little bit he knew about being a soldier was something the doctor gathered from what he was wearing when he was found.

The guy said, "Get outta town!" And he could only stare back because they weren't really in a town and even if they were he didn't exactly have the means to leave it. When asked why he came into the bar, he shrugged and decided he thought it could be familiar but it wasn't. He felt like he'd been in a lot of bars in his life. But he had no idea why that would be true. The guy said, after all: "You don't really look old enough to be eighteen. But you'd have to be if you were flying suits with OZ." Then he looked both ways like he was scanning the place for something and said, "Hey kid, on the house, for your service. You look like you could use it." And he was given this beer with the ancient purity standards of the Bavarians, whoever the hell they were, and he sat off by himself because a few more patrons came in, some people the guy working the bar apparently knew and they all spoke loudly to each other.

That was fine. He didn't feel like talking to the guy anyway, even if he got a free beer in return for nearly freezing slash suffocating to death in the emptiness of space. Maybe he never felt like talking to anyone, ever. He didn't know. He didn't know anything. So what did that make him? Why was he here? Why had he joined the military? _Was_ he even eighteen? Where did he learn to be a pilot? And you know what? He _didn't_ like wheat ales so forget this. He stood up and left the bottle on the bar as he went, nodding a thanks out to the guy who'd given it to him. "'ey, good luck out there man," the guy called and he just said thanks because luck sounded sort of stupid. There was no such thing as luck, things just happened and you had to react to them however you could. How had he reacted when he'd floated in space? Was he certain he was going to die? Had he been afraid? Did he cry and beg and pray that he wouldn't? Did his family miss him? Would he ever remember who he was? Did it matter?

Space colonies were weird. That's what he decided as he went back outside. It was almost five thirty and he was told it was October so in some odd attempt to replicate what five thirty on an October evening in an American city looked like, the day cycle was matched to that of New York City's. Didn't these people want to be free from the Earth? If so, why bother with stuff like that? Fake evenings trying to capture the essence of a home most of these people weren't even familiar with. Dusk here because it was dusk there, and it had to be dusk sometime. The shadows were all long and tall and lanky and he stared at his own as he walked towards it to nowhere. He was still housed in that shelter but he didn't always stay there, even if that's where his feet were taking him now out of habit. He didn't like it. Too many people. Some of them drunks, some on drugs, some angry, some crying all the time, some never shutting up and some had less to say than him which seemed especially odd seeing as how they knew who they were and he didn't. So he wouldn't go back there tonight, probably, even if they had a bed for him. Everything there was dirty and when you came out of the building, normal people who had normal homes and normal lives looked at you like a pile of dog crap on the sidewalk. _You_ were personally ruining their nice city. _You_ were a blight on their normalcy. _You_ were just not trying hard enough to be like the rest of them.

Maybe he wasn't. He couldn't be sure. The doctor told him you couldn't just force your memories to come back, and they might not ever return for as long as he lived. But he was young, he'd been told, so he had plenty of time to get to know who he was or who he wanted to be. And if OZ ever got back to them about who he was, if they'd recognize him from what part of space he'd been left to float around in or from a photo that matched their files, maybe they could get him in touch with his real family who could better tell him who he was. When he talked it was with a Russian accent and a colony of Eastern Europeans was in this very same cluster so he thought of going there. But then what difference did it make if he wandered aimlessly here or wandered aimlessly there? At least here he could check back with that shelter to see if OZ had anything for him yet.

He stopped at the crosswalk like everybody else and he glanced around at the people there but their eyes were all forward like they were bored out of their minds and willing the light to change already. Some people were on cell phones and he watched them talk for a second, all animated hands and grins and frowns and eyebrows jumping up and down. He moved with them when the light was theirs and splintered off from the herd at the entrance to the shelter. Wasn't safety in numbers? Or maybe not. Maybe it depended on which numbers you were getting yourself into.

The doors opened as someone left so he glanced up and the guy leaving the place looked too young to look so angry but there he was, glaring at him with dark blue eyes. He didn't recognize him so he probably didn't live in there. And maybe all that scowling was from being forced to interact with all the scumbags leeching off of welfare like himself. So he looked away but that felt stupid because he wasn't some dog and he wasn't afraid of that guy so he looked back over at him and fixed him with a glare of his own, as if to say, "the hell are you looking at, asshole?"

But this clearly wasn't who he was because it made him feel like an idiot and he looked forward again with his face resetting to a neutral expression that so far most people told him looked sort of sad. He wasn't sad. He wasn't much of anything and that's just how his face looked he guessed. If you didn't have anything to remember, you didn't have anything to be sad about. That's what he decided.

He headed to the doors himself and when he finally passed the angry guy he was still glaring at him. So he stared back, pace slowing a little because really, what was this guy after, giving him a look like that just for walking by? He said abruptly _vut_ instead of what because he forgot to try a little harder with that 'w' noise he didn't have in Russian so that was great, outing himself as a foreigner here. A foreigner sponging up precious taxpayer money because he'd nearly died trying to fight for their rights. Or did he? What the hell was OZ even fighting for? He couldn't remember. Did he want to? What if he'd been fighting for the wrong people?

But then the guy said, "You tell me." And his voice was accented too, but he didn't know with what. He looked mixed so it was difficult to pinpoint anything but maybe he looked a little East Asian.

"What's that supposed to mean?" he asked defensively because really who did this guy think he was?

The other guy just shrugged so he kept walking.

"Are you staying here?" the guy asked, following him.

"Who are you?" he said finally, not liking the way this guy glared at him intensely like he was trying to make his head explode with telekinesis or something and all his weird questions and statements.

The guy was quiet for a second. Like he was really considering something. "Nobody," he answered finally.

"Yeah, me too, what a pair we are," he said back, annoyed still at the intrusion. But why? What was so important for him to get back to?

"Where are you from?" the guy asked.

Was he not making it plain enough that he didn't want to talk to him? "What do you want?"

The other guy shrugged.

He stared and really wished he had a cigarette all of a sudden. In all his time here since waking up in the hospital, he hadn't felt that. So way to go, angry guy, for making others want to kill themselves slowly with poison fumes. "I don't know if you are making game of me-"

"Making fun," the guy corrected like it was second nature for him to fix his mangled turns of phrase.

He narrowed his eyes. "Okay. Are you? Just because I live at a shelter, it doesn't mean you're better than me."

"I'm not making fun of you. That's more of a home than I have."

"Okay." He didn't really believe that but didn't know what else to say.

"Have you eaten today?"

"No."

"Want to?"

He laughed at the absurdity of it. How'd this guy go from trying to kill him with his mind to offering him a meal? "You're insane."

"And hungry. So?"

"Are you going to drag me down an ally and chop me up?"

"If you keep being so defensive I might think about it." The guy spoke without really inflecting much emotion into his voice so everything he said came out almost deadpan. Maybe he really was a serial killer.

"I'm an ex soldier who survived the vacuum of space for eleven hours. You may want an easier target."

The guy nodded thoughtfully but said, "I can appreciate a challenge."

He blew out a breath but there was a small grin on his face. So he could eat at the shelter or eat with this weirdo. Or dig out of a dump if he was really that desperate. "Fine, where?"

"A friend told me about a place a couple blocks away." It was hard to believe this guy had many friends with his angry stare and awkward sense of humor.

"Sure, whatever." That was probably the exact attitude that got him ejected into open space but he wasn't sure how to shake it off. Maybe it was part of who he was.

The walk was short and they exchanged names: Odin, which he commented was the Russian word for the number one, though pronounced differently. And then he was supposed to give his own name and had to tell the guy he didn't know it. Usually that got him some look of disbelief, like he was telling an elaborate joke or being a petulant teenager. But Odin just nodded and said, "Okay." Like it was not unusual to meet someone without a name.

The friend-recommended place served kebabs, gyros, and pitas. He didn't know if he'd ever had any of those things. All the food he'd had so far was from the shelter. Bland, too salty, out of a can or a freeze-dried package. He ate it because it was free and he wasn't terribly picky but he could definitely say it was bad. He didn't know what salisbury steak was meant to be but he knew he'd never eat it to find out. The place smelled good when they walked in and the only thing in his stomach was Bavarian certified wheat ale that he didn't like anyway. "What do you usually get here?" he asked. It wasn't like he could remember his preferences, especially not when his only memorable exposure to food was stuff at the shelter.

"I don't know if I like any of it," Odin answered.

"Why'd you come here then?"

"Friend recommended it. Trying to get better at trusting friends."

He stared at Odin for a minute, who was studying the laminated menu and finally he said, "That's a weird thing to say."

"How would you know, if you can't remember anything?"

Now it was his turn to stare at the menu. He let the words 'lamb gyro' bounce around his brain like it could take up all available real estate and he wouldn't have to face the question. He really wanted a cigarette. He went with the gyro since it was all he could think about for the moment and they put in their orders at the counter and waited for their ticket to be called.

"Why did you talk to me?" he asked Odin.

"You reminded me of someone I knew once."

"Oh," he said but didn't let himself get hopeful because surely if this guy actually knew him, he'd have said something by now.

"He's dead, though." So that resolved that.

"Sorry," he muttered. This guy didn't hold back when it came to divulging things. Most people he'd spoken to briefly did a little song and dance around heavy subjects like death, or his amnesia. Odin just addressed them head on. Maybe that was a little better than pretending nothing bad ever happened.

"Don't be," Odin said. "He fought in wars all his life. Now he's free of them. It's selfish to want him back if he's found some kind of peace." Odin went quiet then, unable to bring himself to look up for a moment. He guessed it was probably hard to deal with losing a friend. Maybe he should've been more sad, given he'd lost all of them. Then again, he could get them back sometime and this guy couldn't, so being sad was just stupid for him to do.

"I'm sorry," he said again and this time it was clear in his voice. This was genuine, not just courteous lip-service.

"I told you: don't be."

"Yeah but-" He stopped suddenly and pressed a hand to his head. The pain was sharp but brief and a chill ran through him and he wondered if it was worth worrying about. "I only mean...I can not be sure of this. But I think someone told me once to be true to my emotions. And regret for your loss is what I felt so I said it."

Odin's lips curled up ever so slightly. His eyes even looked a little softer. Then he said, "Okay."

They ate mostly in silence and maybe that should've been awkward and weird but for some reason it wasn't. Silence didn't have to be a bad thing and he guessed Odin knew that somehow, even when a lot of people three times his age might not ever. Odin paid for them both and he thanked him for it but was told, "It's okay. You let me see my friend one last time and that's worth more than a gyro."

So he nodded and they got up to leave. Outside, Odin looked down the street and he said, "You know, there's one more person you reminded me of." He just looked like everyone to this guy, apparently. This sounded a little less sincere than the last, though, but he didn't say anything. Maybe his friend's death had really taken a toll and his mind was all screwed up. He was in no position to judge on that front. "A girl I saw at the circus on the other side of the colony. She throws knives for a living."

"I look like a circus person?" That didn't sound like a great comparison and he wondered if he should take it personally.

"You just look like her. That's not such a bad thing," Odin said. It left him curious and hell what did he have to lose, walking to the other side of the city? So he nodded and on some level knew that nod was also a good bye. Odin walked away and the guy without a name watched him go but didn't try to stop him. It'd been a weird day but the other guy's words came back to him. How did he know what was weird if he couldn't remember anything? He felt cold, a sort of cold that sank right into the marrow of his bones and then the rain started coming down to make it worse so he moved on. That was all he could do was move on.


End file.
